


Without a closing time (or someone to blame)

by Chimerari



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - All Media Types, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Escorts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Escort Service, F/F, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:45:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George didn't mean to become a pimp. He's just good with people</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The thing is, George didn’t mean to become a pimp. Even has an Oxford degree to prove that---modern languages, if you must know.

He was contemplating on what to do with his life, whether to take up post-grad studies or find a job, when his grand aunt passed away. She left him a handsome three-storey house in South Ken.

George moved in, naturally. The place was wasted on one person, so he decided to rent the rooms out. His first tenant turned out to be an escort, who arrived on the first day with three suitcases full of shoes. A tad excessive, but whatever (‘Nonsense, dear. You can never be too rich or have too many pairs of shoes’).

When she wasn’t absent or drunk or high, she’d be moaning about her agency. Eventually George said look, why don’t you quit?

‘And do what, darling? A girl like me is high maintenance.’ She slurred in that lilting accent, and tossed her glossy curls over her shoulder.

‘I didn’t mean the job.’

‘I have a few regulars, sure. But once they move on I’ll be stuck.’

George remembered Oliver Lacon saying something about wanting to chuck money at his dates---not for the sex, rather, for them to leave after---and said he might have an idea. After all, he had no shortage of acquaintances from uni, most of whom young, rich, and spoilt.

It went downhill from there.

Six months later, George gave up on the job hunt, and started to look after his four tenants for real.

He still calls them tenants in his head, even now. Employee sounds too formal, friend is far from the truth, and he doesn’t even want to consider the alternatives.

The Circus has a website, where the potential customers could cherry pick their date---companions for social gatherings, for instance, or something else entirely, depends on how much the client is paying. There’s a drop-down menu that allows them to tailor their pleasures; vanilla is a given, anything kinky costs extra. George makes a point not to get into the specifics, as long as it’s between two consenting adults and the payment is laid down in full.

Most of the transactions are settled online or over the phone. This whole profession runs on discretion, George appreciates that. He still insists on a tastefully decorated reception, which serves as front-of-house slash staff common room. Connie can always be found lounging in front of the fireplace, cigarette in one hand champagne flute in the other. Her girly trailing laugh can be heard in George’s study on the second floor.

She’s one of the few who still lives here; Connie is the Queen, and a queen does not retire from her court.

 

 

 

George is coming down the stairs when the doorbell dings. At this hour, it’s most likely Bill; that brat never calls in advance, always shows up when he feels like it.

Sure enough, Jim’s pleasant baritone soon follows.

‘Good evening, Mr Haydon. What can I do for you?’

‘Ah, Jim, the usual will do.’

A few clicks of the mouse. ‘I’m afraid Ann has some prior arrangement tonight. Would you like to have a look through our menu?’

‘What’s your recommendation then, Jim? You know I’m terribly indecisive.’

‘Wine, or spirit?’

‘Wine, I think.’

‘Then may I suggest Belinda?’ There’s a rustle of pages turning, a moment later Bill lets out a chuckle.

‘BA in art history? Where have you been hiding this one, huh?’

‘She’s one of our new recruits.’ Jim laughs, a polite sound. ‘I can get her to meet you in an hour at…?’

‘The Ritz, please.’

‘Enjoy your evening, Mr Haydon.’

‘Thank you, Jim. I’ll see you around.’

George emerges when Jim already has the receiver pressed to his ear, talking a mile a minute.

‘Linda, listen, it’s Jim. Yes, the Ritz, you’ve got an hour.’

A shriek breaks out from the other side. Jim whips his head away from the earpiece and winces.

‘Trust me, you look great. Talk art tonight, and wear that pin in your hair. He likes them a bit quirky.’

He quickly disconnects lest his eardrums suffer any permanent damage. George shakes his head.

‘Really, Jim, where would I be without you?’

‘Crash and burn, most likely---’

The front door bursts open again. When he sees who it is, George secretly echoes Jim’s groan.

‘Hey guys, why the long faces?’

Ricki leans against the door frame, sleeveless shirt unbuttoned all the way down to his navel. Ricki is one of the longest running tenants, and by far the most trouble-some. He is pretty, George supposes, the kind of pretty that’s not dissimilar to a dagger---shiny, with a wickedly sharp edge.

‘We’re still dealing with the complaint from your last client.’ George takes off his glasses and starts to polish them.

‘The handcuffs were his idea.’ Ricki shrugs. ‘Didn’t even have the decency to warn me beforehand.’

‘Doesn’t justify you cuffing him to the bed, in a hotel room, naked.’ Jim’s face twitches with every emphasis, going blotchy.

‘Aww come on, it’s quite funny when you think about it,’ Ricki whines. ‘Alright, I’ll bite. What did he say? Do I have to go over and---’ a wink, ‘---apologize?’

‘I sent Peter instead.’ George fixes the glasses back on. ‘He’s better at handling this sort of situation.’

Ricki snorts. ‘Oh, he definitely doesn’t need the handcuffs with Pete.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ A voice cuts in.

‘It means, you could charm his pants off with your personality alone, right, baby?’ Ricki spins around, voice saccharine sweet.

Peter doesn’t dignify that with a response, shouldering Ricki out of the way as he steps inside.

‘How did it go, Peter?’

‘As smoothly as it could. Given the circumstances.’

‘Did you tell that creep Tarr’s a good boy really, even if he’s impulsive? Or did you get on your knees and thank him for his---’

‘Good god, what’s with all this ruckus?’ Connie floats down the stairs in her night dress, a cloud of ruffles and ribbons. Her spaniel Flush pads silently along.

She rests a hand on George’s lapel, working the pointy end between her finger and thumb.

‘Boys, it’s far too early to be arguing already, surely.’

Ricki bends down to scratch Flush behind the ears. Peter glares at the top of his head, but thankfully says nothing. The tension dissolves almost as quickly as it’s arrived. George pats Connie’s wrist in thanks. She smiles up to him, misty eyed.

‘Oh, George, be a darling and fetch me a pill, will you? This headache is killing me.’


	2. Chapter 2

Ricki doesn’t dislike Peter per se. It’s just…what kind of self-respecting whore (ohhh, pardon, escort) dresses like a cross between a don and a banker? The most casual Ricki’s seen him in is a polo shirt. At the last Christmas party, Peter showed up in a dove grey cashmere coat and a freaking cravat, which made Ricki want to break things. For instance, the mistletoe that always managed to appear above Peter’s head.

Or maybe to tuck the said mistletoe into his own back pocket, with a sign saying KISS THIS, YOU POMPOUS LITTLE SHIT, caps and all.

And this was _before_ some adventurous chick books them both for her birthday party.

The girl is lovely---dark hair, doe eyes, wrapped up in a slip of a dress. Always a bonus when the client isn’t too hard on the eye. Ricki is a good actor, but not **that** good.

She parades them around, casually linking arms with both men. The glances coming their way are colourful to say the least, green, mostly. They play the part of attentive suitors with practiced ease, battling for her attention, nothing new here.

Until she leads them into a lift, which goes straight to the penthouse suite.

Ricki isn’t getting anxious. Hell, he has nothing to be ashamed of in the bedroom department, has participated in threesomes before, watched and been watched. It’s all part of the job description.

He’s jittery, is all. Too much free alcohol.

Peter’s face is flushed, his bowtie hanging loose. Those pale eyes glint like marbles in the dim light. He really does have the most peculiar upper lip, Ricki muses to himself.

It shocks no one that it’s Peter who sets the ball rolling, peppering kisses down her neck. She giggles, nodding, and lets herself be guided down to the bed with a drunken stumble. Peter slides up behind her, long legs on either side of her hips: close enough to tease, but far from controlling. _Whatever it is you want, love, whatever you want you can have._

Always fun bullshitting with the bullshitter, Ricki snorts under his breath. He toes off his shoes and socks while those two are otherwise occupied, because they are the most challenging items to remove without looking like an idiot. Unbuttons his shirt, too.

He allows himself a moment to enjoy the view: the girl is splayed out in Peter’s lap, long dress riding up and up, thighs peeping though the slit down the front. All that honey-hued skin makes Peter’s pale limbs look practically glowy.

Peter doesn’t seem to be in any hurry at all. Rubbing soothing circles up and down her side as he smiles at something she says.

Yeah, the nervous ones always tend to pick Peter, that damn school boy face of his.

That’s when Peter glances up, pinning Ricki with a sidelong look.

‘Tarr, come here,’ He whispers, almost to himself, eyes focused on the girl’s rapidly rising and falling chest. His voice sounds deeper than usual, smoother, fur and dirt.

And Ricki is kneeling in front of them without realizing when he’s moved. The girl (Camilla, his brain supplies faintly) tenses, just a minute shift in her posture. Peter notices, of course.

‘Shh, it’s okay, gorgeous.’ A kiss dropped to her bare shoulder. ‘He’ll make it good for you, trust me.’

She does relax, head lolling back. Peter lets out a shaky sigh, nosing up into her tousled hair. His bony fingers begin their slow descent, down, down until they are parting the dress, inch by inch, pulling the velvet up and away.

Ricki can’t watch, can barely hear anything above the thumping in his ears, the air around them cloying in his throat. He ducks down, mouthing along her thigh, mindful not to put too much pressure behind the touch. It’s enough for now to feel her trembling against him, skin beaded with sweat already.

A hand (distinctly male) grips the back of his neck, tilting his head up, directing it towards the v between her legs. Those fingers pulling his hair a bit too hard, but the burn barely registers, not with the way Ricki’s mouth suddenly waters.

Her silk knickers are damp, clinging to the shapes of her lips. The ripe scent of a girl gets straight into his vein like a hit. Ricki resists the temptation (the steady pressure guiding his head), takes his time to nuzzle and taste every inch of skin revealed.

She jerks when Ricki presses his tongue to the hollow of the silk, a cry dying in her throat. Peter’s voice washes over them, warm and weighty.

‘Sweetheart, you’re doing good, you’re doing so well.’

Ricki groans, sealing his mouth over the soft mound, sucking gently. The tiny piece of cloth is a sodden mess now. He loves it, all of it: the taste and smell, the tiny involuntary twitches beneath his palms, a near constant buzzing.

Then Peter is there, manoeuvring the flimsy material out of the way, exposing her fully. Ricki sways forward, lapping in between Peter’s fingers, over her and into her. The flavour bursts across his tongue, smooth and sour, and underneath that, the taste of salt and sweat and a hint of bitterness.

Camilla is clutching at his shoulders now, trying in vain to pull him closer, thighs squeezing and relaxing. Peter lets go, sliding back up so that his fingers rest on either side of her clit, not quite massaging, just a fluttering pressure for her to rock into.

She’s dripping all over Ricki’s chin, breath hitched. Then she’s pulling away, babbling, ‘I want…just….oh God’

Trust Peter to piece it together first. He shuffles up the bed, gently drawing her along. Camilla clings on, caught somewhere between a gasp and a giggle. Ricki follows them blindly, kissing the inside of her elbows, her ears, the corners of her slack mouth.

By some silent agreement, Ricki snakes a hand down, keeping her distracted while Peter discards his clothes and gets a condom on. He pushes in slowly, pausing every now and again to ask in a hushed tone if she’s okay, crooning encouragement. She sobs out a yes, pulling Ricki down to muffle her moans into his mouth.

They go slow, sinking into a rhythm together. The light throws Peter’s lanky limbs into stark relief. Ricki could feel sweat dripping onto his back when he kisses across her stomach. His brain short-circuits and he almost, almost curls a hand around Peter’s back, anchoring him.

Later, when the girl is dozing off in the middle of the bed, Ricki stumbles into the bathroom and finishes himself off with a couple of quick pulls. All the air leaves his lungs in a great big woosh, choking him.

Peter has already pulled the covers to her chin when Ricki comes out. He’s nowhere in sight though; even his clothes are gone.

Ricki closes the door behind him with a quiet click, and sends out a thanks to whoever is listening that he’s alone in the lift. There is no way to make post-coital small talk with your…co-worker.

He checks his bank account in the morning, and wonders if Peter gets the bigger share. He was the one running the show after all, damn control freak.


	3. Chapter 3

The Circus is a business. A business that needs PR and Legal and Finance and once, thankfully just once, a power-point presentation on Safe, Sane and Consensual. Westerby obviously has too much free time on his hands. (George hears Jim’s splutter from two floors down: ‘Why do I need a copy of this?!’)

Most importantly, George doesn’t pluck hustlers off the street like he’s rescuing strays. There are strict criteria and a two-stage screening process. Quality is what sets the Circus apart, and George never compromises on that. People come for the arm candy, the guaranteed orgasm in a willing body, but they stay for the extras. 

Over the years there are a few tenants that have stuck around, metaphorically or otherwise: Tatiana, the ex-ballerina with her shoe fetish; Ricki, who can swear like a sailor in three languages and do pitch-perfect impersonation of a dozen actors; Peter plays the piano and the violin and quotes The Iliad as if it’s a nursery rhyme; Ann, who admits point blank that she’s married and does this for fun; Connie, who is an outrageous flirt, but prefers cross-words to human contact when she’s off duty. 

Because George would like to think of himself as a decent human being, he sends out Christmas cards and chocolates and organizes ski holidays in the Alps, or weekends in Hawaii. Sometimes they bring company to those trips---a hook-up, occasionally a loved one---then everyone plays make-believe with glee. Adrian, Peter’s boyfriend tags along to a few of those. A pleasant fella if somewhat reserved, which makes the whole group tease him all the more mercilessly, Ricki at the forefront. 

Once Adrian asks what exactly their company does (‘Pete’s terrible at explaining.’ He blushes). Ricki cackles, nearly knocking his drinks over.

‘Weeeell, do you want to know the truth, Adrian?’

Everyone waits with baited breath. Peter narrows his eyes in warning. Ricki drops his voice, as if he’s imparting some great wisdom.

‘We don’t. Mister Smiley is our sugar daddy.’

All those within earshot roar with laughter. 

Later, George catches Peter cornering Ricki, his voice barely above a hiss.

‘What the fuck is your problem, Tarr?’

Ricki holds his hands up, all big-eyed innocence. ‘Wow, what have I done this time?’ 

‘Don’t play dumb with me.’

‘It was a joke.’ Ricki’s face is obscured. ‘Should I wave a flag every time I’m about to tell one?’

‘You think you’re funny, don’t you?’ 

‘At least I don’t think I’m better than everyone else.’ 

George steps out from behind the potted plant. ‘Peter, here you are, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ 

Peter moves away, fists clenched. When he turns around, his face is perfectly amicable; in true style of one of the Circus’ own. 

Jim probably has a better understanding of the clients than George. He looks into the practical details: the flowers they like, the restaurants they frequent, their birthdays and anniversaries. 

George knows one thing: where to find them. A passing comment at the theatre, a friend of a friend, he’s got his ears perked and his eyes open. George doesn’t leave cards. He melts into conversations, often with Ann by his side. She’s just the right sort of gorgeous to pique people’s interest, but nothing as gauche as a walking advertisement. 

Bill Haydon is an exception, like he often is---breezes in one day and starts to make demands. Sometimes he likes boys half his age (legal, thank god), sometimes he prefers ladies with delicate shoulders and a dreamy expression. There is a running joke that Bill has slept with everyone, with the exception of Jim and George. 

The really puzzling thing is, everyone seems to like him. Even Ricki, who never has a decent thing to say about anybody, thinks he’s charming. 

‘You don’t care for him much, do you?’ Connie once remarks.

‘Given the chance, I’m sure we’ll get along perfectly well.’ George moves a pawn, blocking her castle. 

If anyone asks, Peter would say Adrian is an accident. 

Quite literally. 

Their first meeting involved pouring rain, foggy glasses, and a bicycle. Adrian apologized profoundly and offered to buy Peter a coffee, in compensation for the one rolling in a puddle. 

One coffee turned into a two hour chat, then a phone number.

He texted Peter first, with perfect punctuation and full sentences. It was like reading an essay. It was ridiculous.

And kind of endearing. 

Two dinner dates later, Adrian walked him home and kissed him on the porch. As far as first kisses went, Peter’d had better: they bumped noses, which meant they ended up laughing into each other’s mouth. Adrian was blinking a lot; the contact lenses must have been a new addition for him.

It was a novel feeling, not being a sure thing. When every look and gesture didn’t come with the air of entitlement. 

Peter invited him home the week after. It would never do to have Adrian think he was a cheap date. They ate greasy pizza and necked like teenagers on the couch, half of their clothes hastily shoved out of the way. What Adrian lacked in technique he more than made up for with enthusiasm. Peter touched his soft belly that wasn’t gym toned, the bumps of his spine, and felt something warm settling against his ribs. 

It’s been six months now. He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 


	4. Chapter 4

George knows Connie is pacing in her room because that loose piece of floor board has been squeaking for the last five minutes.

He also knows Connie isn’t normally distracted enough to let the floor squeak.

He goes down, knocks, and waits for a respectable length of time before quietly twisting the door open.

Connie is still in her evening gown---cornflower blue, her favourite. Those strappy heels are kicked aside, her bare feet stark against the plush carpet.

She turns towards the windows as soon as George comes in. One hand holds the other wrist in a nervous grip, twisting and rubbing the skin there.

George rummages through the cabinet and fills half a glass, wordlessly offering it to her. She accepts the drink, still looking away.

For a while neither of them breaks the silence. Their shoulders occasionally brush.

‘Damn you, George.’ Connie sniffs once. ‘Damn you and your spidey senses.’

Her curls have loosened up, the wispy strands appearing almost white in this light.

‘It’s so much simpler with men.’ Connie turns to face him, her lashes clumpy. ‘But women.’ She throws out her arms as if to address an audience of thousands, then lets them drop with a sigh. ‘I am through with women, completely and utterly through.’

Flush lets out a rumbling whine from his basket, no doubt in agreement with his mistress.

‘You know what she said? That cow,’ she sing-songs. ‘It’s been fun, Connie. But it’s time to face the real world.’ Connie drops her head against George’s shoulder. Clammy fingers seek out his and interlace them together. ‘I _hate_ the real world, George. I like the Circus and all my lovely boys. I’d stay here forever if I could.’

‘You could.’

‘Oh, George.’ Connie leans over, brushing a kiss against his temple. ‘You are a darling, oh bless.’ She speaks in that tone people normally reserve for fairy tales, high and breathy, then falls silent again.

They stay like that, holding hands, each lost in their own thoughts. Connie swings her feet like a little girl.

‘Watch out for Ricki, will you?’

George startles, even though he’s used to Connie’s thoughts being as erratic as her moods. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Saw him the other day---’ now it’s her stern mother voice, ‘---started smoking again, that dunderhead.’

George pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes it’s like babysitting, but with twice the mischief and regrettably, a lot less common sense.

 

 

 

Peter is attempting to make French toast, bleary eyed. There isn’t any cinnamon in Adrian’s cupboard, so he settles for honey instead. As for coffee, he’ll just have to function without this morning. It’s already taken all of his restraint not to bin the Nescafe.

Arms snake around his midriff, followed by a cold nose, nuzzling into the side of his neck.

‘God, can you be any more perfect?’

‘Is that your stomach talking?’ Peter flips the toast, bumping hips with Adrian to get him out of the way. Adrian grabs his wrist and takes a bite straight off the spatula. Peter barely suppresses an eye-roll when he puffs out his cheeks; shouldn’t take a genius to work out the food will be hot.

‘Wanna move in with me?’ Adrian blurts out in between bouts of appreciate noises. Peter freezes, unsure if he should laugh it off as a joke, or scarper for the door.

‘I mean, not you know, immediately. Just something to think about.’

Peter swallows. He absolutely is going to refuse. He’ll say something about Adrian’s place being too far, or Peter’s cat allergy against the stray that comes in, or he doesn’t do domesticity.

‘Is next Tuesday good?’

His mouth is the worst traitor.

Adrian grins with a mouthful of chewed toast. His hair sticks up in soft spikes. Peter really should introduce him to the fine art of table manners. Also, those scratchy bed sheets need to go ASAP.

 

 

 

One thing George never asks any of his tenants is why, why this life. The motivation doesn’t matter as long as the show goes on. Curiosity is the height of bad taste, direct questions are even worse.

Ann is the only one who offers her justification freely.

‘We all marry below us, don’t we?’ She puffs out a smoke ring, upper and lower lashes lazily stroking against each other. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s perfectly nice. That in itself is a monstrosity. Besides---’ Ann smiles, her eyes are the sort of reluctant blue that’s more grey in certain lights.

‘---besides, I’m against honesty, on principle.’

Which, George guesses, is why she gets on so well with Bill.


	5. Chapter 5

The noises from next-door are starting to sound like a soap opera: doors slamming, voices raising, china shattering.

It’s also the third time this month. Considering how often Ricki spends the night in his own flat, that’s saying something.

Still, the muffled thud of something heavy (a body) bumping into a solid surface---twice, three times---gives Ricki pause.

Ricki doesn’t consider himself a gallant man. He doesn’t fancy the idea of police turning up in the building either. He waits until there is a louder bang, signalling the departure of at least one of the occupants.

The door squeaks open after some insistent knocking. The woman peering out has limp blond hair and fleeting eyes. Even with the shadows falling across her face, there is no hiding that bruise on her cheek, or the blood drying in her nostrils.

Ricki puts on his best ‘I’m a harmless concerned citizen’ look. ‘Your man, he’s bit of a bastard, isn’t he?’

The lady doesn’t respond. The corner of her mouth twitches.

‘Just wanna make sure you’re alright.’ He pitches his voice low, soothing.

She moves aside stiffly; the sort of meekness that either stems from naivety or indifference.

‘Ricki.’ He holds out a hand for her to shake. She flinches for a split second at the gesture before nodding, her shoulders squared. Doesn’t introduce herself in return, nor does she stop Ricki from budging into the kitchen.

He locates a shrivelled up pack of frozen peas, wraps it in a towel and hands it out. She takes the makeshift icepack, rests it against the swelling with an ease Ricki chooses to ignore.

The plates and mugs are beyond salvageable. He bins the whole lot, while surreptitiously checking for signs of concussion. So far she seems conscious and mobile, if not very communicative.

She then proceeds to decline, in no particular order, Ricki’s suggestion to take her to A&E, the police, a friend’s place, or a hotel.

‘Well, if you need any help, I’m right next door.’ Ricki huffs out a frustrated breath, turning to go.

Before he steps into the corridor, she catches his gaze with her one good eye, mouth parting. A thank you, maybe. What comes out instead is an inscrutable smile, unsure and already dying.

He bumps into her a couple of days later. With the pasty foundation, he could almost dismiss the unevenness of her cheeks as a trick of light. Her hair is perfectly pinned back, eyebrows drawn in with a careful hand.

More than anything, it’s this veneer of peace that has Ricki fisting both hands in his pockets.

 

 

 

Peter has had flatmates before. It still doesn’t prepare him for this merging and clashing of their separate orbits. It feels like he’s been sleeping in bouts and fits for the first week, not used to the faint drone of someone else’s snoring, or having elbows jam into vulnerable places without warning. They get worked up about the most petty details: whether the toothpaste should go back to the holder or be left on the counter; who’s spilled water on the floor and hasn’t bothered to put a towel down; how long should dirty dishes stay in the sink for. The sort of arguments that end in sulky silences, sending them to opposite ends of the couch.

But then there are the good bits: quick morning kisses; licking into each other’s mouth when they’re both minty fresh and shower damp; trying out new recipes on lazy Sundays, then Googling ‘what to do with a collapsed soufflé’; play fighting over the remote control. The sex is always great, languid and drawn-out, or quick and dirty. Sometimes Peter feels the urge to show off for no reason at all, to deep throat and tease and delay ultimate pleasure as Adrian’s voice gets increasingly breathy.

Adrian lives in Pimlico, where there are three churches nearby, a primary school, and more dogs being walked than Peter can keep track of. Peter’s own cavernous loft is in Shoreditch, surrounded by arch hipsters and unattached artists. Nobody will bat an eye if you routinely stumble back at 3am. He still goes back there after work, washing the smell of cigarette, booze, or a stranger’s perfume off his skin. On those nights, He’s glad Adrian is mostly asleep by the time he returns; after years of inventing different identities for every client, he still finds it unpleasant to lie.

Adrian never asks about Peter’s random hours. He’s either the most understanding boyfriend in the world, or the most clueless.

 

                                               

 

Officially Jim is the receptionist, plus occasional accountant for the Circus, which means he’s strictly off the menu. Although that doesn’t stop some clients from staring just a beat too long.

Most of the time it doesn’t bother him. It’s good business sense to keep everyone happy, not as if he has to follow through on any promises. Other times, he has to fight to keep the professional smile from cracking.

When he says other times, he means one Bill Haydon in particular.

Jim believes that there exists a line between harmless flirting and intent. A line Haydon probably saw once, some time ago, and has long since disappeared from the rear-view mirror.

Maybe he is being prudish, Jim reasons with himself. But he doesn’t say things like ‘lovely tie, brings out the colour of your eyes’ or, on one memorable occasion, ‘new cologne? I like it’, unless he’s trying to get the said person into bed.

Which Bill Haydon obviously isn’t. Why should he? He has no shortage of funds, the Circus has no shortage of witty, charming, not to mention downright gorgeous people, all eager to please.

So he smiles obligingly at Bill’s throwaway comments, makes all the arrangements, and wishes him goodnight.

And definitely, definitely doesn’t flirt back.


	6. Chapter 6

‘Still with me?’

Peter tenses, only partly from the casual thumb over his pulse. He edges closer, breathes out against an earlobe.

‘Been thinking about this all night…’

Bill laughs throatily, puts a hand to Peter’s shoulder and guides him down. Which, Peter supposes, signals an end to the intellectual portion of the evening.

Later, Bill curls two fingers around his throat, not squeezing so much as holding on, hips smacking sharply against his ass. Peter has to screw his eyes shut against the rising waves of panic, the pressure barely enough to make him lightheaded but---

‘Shh, it’s okay.’ Bill coos, chest flush against Peter’s back, huffing hot and ragged over his shoulder. ‘I won’t leave a mark.’

Peter shudders, pressing his face to the cool satin sheets. He swallows, and swallows again, trying to stomp out the goddamn _gratitude_ churning in his stomach.

‘You can shower here if you want,’ Bill says after, running a finger down Peter’s back. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’ Peter frees one eye (and a nostril) from the mountains of pillows, and blinks. Bill’s answering smile is almost fatherly.

‘Let’s just say I’m good at reading people.’

No point in pretending otherwise, Peter presses a chaste kiss to Bill’s jaw and heads to the bathroom. He sets the water as hot as he can bear and quickly scrubs down. The last tube is gone by now, if he’s lucky he might be able to get a taxi.

When he gets back Adrian is fast asleep, sprawled out on his back, mouth ajar. Peter crawls under the duvet, eyes already drifting shut. Adrian makes a sleepy snuffling noise, shifting to let Peter slot into the crooks and turns of his body.

Peter holds on, exhales.

 

 

 

Ricki almost walks straight into her, too busy fiddling with his phone. They mumble out an apology at the same time. Ricki looks up. ‘Hey.’

She nods, keeping her eyes downcast.

‘Need a hand with these?’

Silence. Ricki shakes his head. ‘Come on, it’s no trouble. I’m going up anyway.’

She finally relents, passing half of the load over. They ride up the lift wordlessly, not making eye contact until they’re inside her kitchen. Ricki drops the shopping with a tight smile and turns to go. The brightly lit space is depressing him with its shiny surfaces.

‘Irina.’

Ricki whirls around, unsure if he’s hallucinating that raspy voice. She looks down, shoulders hunched as if to make herself even smaller.

‘My name, Irina.’

‘Ricki, Ricki Tarr. Nice to meet you.’ He really should go, before he says something he shouldn’t. ‘Are you… alright?’

Irina rubs a hand down her other arm, shrugging.

‘It’s not my place to say this but---’ Ricki could feel his jaw starting to ache, ‘---is there no one you could talk to?’

Her face shutters in a split second, everything wiped clean. ‘Thank you, Ricki.’

The tone leaves no room for discussion. So Ricki leaves, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible.

 

 

 

Jim is the only one out of the Circus who gets up early enough for morning runs. So he’s surprised to bump into a familiar face, to say the least.

Of course, it has to be Bill Haydon, looking immaculately put together in his suit, who’s now watching Jim blinking sweat out of his eyes with an air of amusement.

‘I hope I haven’t interrupted your—’ Bill’s mouth twitches, ‘---recreational exercise.’

Jim gives up on the battle with his unruly forelock. ‘No, not at all, I was just about to finish.’

‘Marvellous.’ Bill grins. ‘Want to grab a coffee? I don’t need to head back until lunch.’

The place Bill has in mind turns out to be one of those 18th-century townhouses, with a winding staircase and floor to ceiling bookshelves. Jim fights the urge to pull his running shorts down the last few inches as a waitress takes their orders: Americano for Jim, double espresso for Bill.

It’s surreal to be racking his brain for things they can talk about, when Jim knows the man’s lactose intolerance to his fondness for blond(e)s. Admittedly he’s never been that much of a conversationist; five minute chats about someone’s preference for the night hardly counts.

Bill puts the stirrer down during a particularly lengthy pause. ‘Look, why don’t we pretend we’ve never met before. I just saw you from across the room.’ He holds out his hand for emphasis, which Jim automatically shakes.

‘Hello, my name is Bill Haydon. How are you?’

Jim has to chuckle at this. ‘James Prideaux. At the moment? Feeling slightly out of place in my sweaty gear.’

‘So where would you normally go for your caffeine fix?’

‘Starbucks.’ Jim shrugs. ‘It’s an evil corporation, but it’s good enough for me.’

‘A man of simple tastes.’ Bill taps with his index finger on the mahogany wood. ‘Now, what’s your story?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Everybody does. You didn’t just materialize out of thin air, did you?’

‘Well, I’m working as a PA for a private firm.’ Jim flickers a look upwards, feeling foolish. Bill only inclines his head in acknowledgement. ‘Not exactly a dream job, but it pays the bills.’

‘What’s your dream job, then?’

‘Soccer player. ‘Jim rubs a palm across the back of his neck. ‘Busted a kneecap in high school, never healed quite right.’

‘Clearly doesn’t stop you from keeping fit.’ This time there is no mistaking the appreciative nature of that look. Jim fidgets, wishing for a computer to hide behind. Bill drops his gaze first, breaking the thin thread of…whatever it is between them.

Connie calls it sexual tension. Jim thinks it’s a persistent stitch in his side.

‘I’ve always wanted to be a painter, to tell you the truth.’

Which explains his frequent attendance to gallery openings. Jim smiles wryly. ‘Let me guess, you eventually succumbed to other people’s expectations.’

‘Not at all.’ Bill leans back in his seat. ‘I simply wasn’t very good. My first, and last, exhibition happened when I was still in Oxford. I don’t think the critics have stopped snickering since.’ He pauses, nose crinkling. ‘God, I sound like a right nob, don’t I?’

‘Merely very privileged.’ Jim is immune to tales of too much money and too little sense, he has to be. Bill’s story isn’t even half as absurd. ‘What made you switch to law, out of all things?’

‘Unlike Surrealism, debate is something I both enjoy and am reasonably good at.’

Jim can see that: Bill’s sharp wit, a certain ruthlessness when he senses surrender.

Too bad Jim has to be on the receiving end of those qualities, however briefly and sporadically.

 

 

 

It’s one of those rare nights when they are both home for supper. The steaks are cooked to perfection, the air mellow with the smell of spice and herbs. Peter is scraping the last bit of digestive biscuit off his plate when Adrian takes a sip from his glass, rolling the stem between two fingers.

‘You know, I kept waiting for an explanation, Peter. And I don’t think it’s going to voluntarily come any time soon.’

Peter’s grip tightens around the fork. The metal jingles against the edge of the plate so he lets go, clasping his hands together.

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘How about the truth? The late hours, the showers before you come home, the smell of cigarettes you don’t even smoke?’ Adrian’s face twists for a moment with anger, then it washes back out of him like a tide receding. ‘If there is someone else you can tell me, I’m an adult.’

Peter shakes his head once. Somewhere in his mind, there is a distinct feeling of a house of cards tumbling down.

‘Then this is going nowhere.’ Adrian pushes away from the table, his voice even. ‘I’m going away for a week. When I come back, I need you to make your mind up.’

Peter reaches for him. Adrian twists away lightning fast, knuckles white.


	7. Chapter 7

‘Oh, heart, I hate to say this, but you’ve let yourself go.’ Connie tuts.

Peter bends down and kisses the back of her ring-laden hand. ‘Thank you, Con. Personally I prefer ‘rugged good looks’.’

‘There is a difference between that, and not making an effort.’ Connie taps Peter’s cheek before turning to Smiley. ‘Will you look at this? The Golden Boy doesn’t even have his coat collar up. Soon he’ll forget to wash.’

George, who’s been watching the whole exchange with a smile, speaks up, ‘If you’re feeling unwell, Peter…’

‘No, I’m fine.’ Peter smooths a hand down the front of his shirt. ‘It’s only a champagne reception tonight, I’ll survive.’

‘In that case, I shall expect you back here afterwards.’ George’s eyes linger on Peter’s jawline for a second, where he happened to cut himself on the razor this afternoon. ‘Unless, of course, you’d prefer to go home and get some rest.’

Peter’s shoulders droop. ‘It will be after eleven, most likely.’

‘I’m a late sleeper.’ George reassures him. ‘Come, keep me company for a bit.’

 

 

 

They talk about the weather (dreadful), the election (a great big mindfuck as always), and the races (George routinely loses the bet). Between one breath and the next, Peter blurts out, ‘I have no idea what to tell him.’

George waits. The reflection from the glasses whites out the upper half of his face.

‘Hey, Adrian, you know I said I worked in hospitality? Catering to the customers’ every need? It’s a bit more literal than you thought.’

‘If you’re thinking about leaving---’ George pours him another finger of whisky.

‘I’m still debating whether to let him hate me for my profession, or for the assumption that I’m a cheating bastard.’

‘Are you sure there is no door number three?’

‘What’s behind that? Magical land of happily-ever-after?’

‘I’m the last person who should be giving out relationship advice.’ George cranes forward, patting Peter’s shoulder. ‘But, at the end of the day, you have to ask yourself which would be the bigger regret: not trying, or trying but failing.’

Peter grinds a knuckle against his temple. ‘I walked into this one with eyes wide open, didn’t I?’

‘Sleep on it, Peter. You’re more than welcome to spend some time here. Maybe a change of scenery will help.’

Peter blows out a puff of smoke. It’s impossible to be a social smoker and not have the occasional craving.

‘Yeah, I might. Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it. I’ll get Jim to free your schedule for the week.’

‘Now you’re just spoiling me.’ Peter cracks a smile.

 

 

 

If Connie is the Queen, then Ann is the winged devil with a siren song in her heart. A true Londoner who thrives on noise and pollution. The smell of loose morals makes me giddy, she once famously said.

She and Connie has never seen eye to eye. Nowadays hey can spend an entire evening without exchanging a single word, thanks to a spectacular fallout.

Connie was telling George that she’s discovered love since they last met. Ann, who happened to be nearby, smirked.

‘It’s called an orgasm, cupcake.’

Connie bit back just as sweetly. ‘Of course, about the one thing you’re capable of.’

‘At least I’m not going to be chucked out once I get too old for this.’

Connie’s answer was a glass of Chablis down the front of her dress. The Louboutin that followed very nearly took Toby’s eye out. George does his best to keep them in opposite ends of the room at every staff party thereafter. Connie, in particular, has a memory like an elephant.

 

 

 

It starts off like any other Friday night. Jim is getting ready to head home. He’s sure there is a permanent kink in his neck where he’s been nudging the phone against. Peter is playing scrabble with Connie and losing spectacularly. Everyone freezes when the front door bangs open, and in stumbles Ricki Tarr with a bleeding lip.

Peter is the first to speak.

‘What the hell happened?’

Ricki swallows and grimaces. ‘What can I say, you shoulda seen the other guy?’

Jim blanches and reaches for the computer. Ricki rolls his one good eye. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, wasn’t a client.’

Peter slaps an ice tray on after ravaging through the mini bar. Ricki hisses, licking the oozing cut on his lower lip.

‘I repeat, what happened?’

‘Some asshole doesn’t appreciate me talking to his wife.’ Ricki bristles at the look on Peter’s face. ‘We. Were. Just. Talking!’

Connie reappears with George in tow, who narrows his eyes at the scene. Ricki looks down on the floor.

‘Whose money do you owe?’ George sighs.

‘Jesus, what’s a man gotta do to get some love around here?’ Ricki collapses onto the sofa, pouting.

George turns towards Peter. ‘Hospital?’

Peter lifts the icepack and peers at the bruises. ‘No, it’s fine, I’ve got this.’ Ricki clutches at his heart, feigning panic. ‘Oh God, Mr. Smiley, don’t leave me at his mercy.’

‘I’m perfectly happy to dump you in A and E.’ Peter glares right back.

Ricki deflates, hugging both knees to his chest pitifully.

George raises his voice slightly. ‘Alright. The full story can wait until tomorrow. Go get some rest, Ricki.’

Peter pulls Ricki to his feet none–too-gently, and proceeds to frog-walk him to one of the spare rooms. (‘Quit manhandling me, will ya?’ Ricki grumbles.)

‘Lie down. I’ll go get some paracetamol.’

He comes back with a glass of water, just in time to catch a stark naked Ricki throwing back the covers. Peter dumps the pills on the dresser, resolutely refusing to be ruffled. Ricki, on the other hand, has no qualms about turning around.

‘Gonna tuck me in?’ He quirks an eyebrow.

At this rate, Peter will be the one needing the pain killer soon. ‘Dizziness? Nausea? Double vision?’

Ricki shakes his head at each question. ‘He just caught me off guard. I’m not bleeding into my brain or anything. Chill, mother hen.’

‘If you wake up sick, do me a favour and call 999. ‘

‘Sure thing, doc.’ Ricki grins, burrowing under the sheets. ‘Or you can give me a ride in that snazzy little car of yours, just like the last time.’


	8. Chapter 8

The last time isn’t something Peter is fond of remembering. Mostly because the devil riding shotgun was a shivering wreck, giggling maniacally whenever he wasn’t failing to draw air into his lungs.

It was your typical showbiz party, the hip and trendy kind, with what was supposed to be a breathtaking view. Peter followed obligingly when the client, some up-and-coming actress, wanted a closer look. They leaned against the full-length glass and peered down. Peter had one arm curled around her tiny waist, as much for PDA as it was for his own peace of mind. He once had someone flying him out to a private island, who specifically wanted to have sex against a window. Which normally wasn’t a problem, except the villa was built right at the edge of a cliff face. The whole time he was quoting Gertrude Stein in his head to block out the sound of the sea, crushing and rumbling a thousand feet below.

Anyway, the party was going well. The music had gone from live string quartet to Lady Gaga. Peter was fetching another techni-coloured cocktail for the lady when a hand grabbed his elbow from behind. He turned, recognizing the dark outline of a jaw with no small amount of exasperation.

‘I’m on a job, go bother someone else.’

The expected snarky reply didn’t come. Instead, Ricki gripped tighter, fingers digging in almost painfully.

‘Get me away from here.’

‘Oh, for God’s---’

Ricki cut in, talking a mile a minute. ‘Please, you’re the only one here I---I don’t know what they put in my drink…’ his voice broke a little.

Peter stiffened. Even in the dim light Ricki’s eyes were too bright, his skin sheened with sweat.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have been surprising. People were into all sorts of things, apparently including drugging an escort for thrills.

Peter grabbed Ricki’s shoulders and gave him a shake.

‘Stay here. I’ll go get the car.’

Ricki’s wobbly smile was a mixture of relief and gratitude. ‘Okay, I’ll try.’ Peter ground his teeth and dashed off, almost running a waiter over in his haste.

By the time he came back, Ricki was nowhere in sight. He swore under his breath, cold sweat crawling down his back. There were many explanations, each less comforting than the last.

The sudden vibration of his phone made Peter jump. He fished it out with shaky fingers, heart between his teeth.

 _Loo_ , the text said.

Flooded with relief, Peter weaved through the crowd. Luckily only one of the cubicles was occupied. He knocked. ‘Ricki?’

After a few breathless seconds, the door swung open. Ricki blinked sluggishly at him from the floor, as if he just woke up and didn’t recognize the surroundings. Peter’s stomach clenched; under the harsh light, Ricki’s skin appeared almost blue. At least, he hoped it was due to the lighting.

‘They came looking, had to…’ Ricki croaked. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

‘Shh.’ Peter laid a careful hand on his arm, the skin there felt clammy. ‘Come on, let’s get you to the lobby first.’

Ricki stumbled forward, perhaps recognizing the low urgency in Peter’s tone more than any conscious decision.

The journey down wasn’t easy when he was dragging someone along. Peter murmured complete lies about _just a bit further_. From the way Ricki wheezed in lieu of laughing, he knew it, too.

Peter broke every traffic law there was to get to the hospital. Slumped in the passenger seat, Ricki yammered on---‘Here lies Ricki Tarr, perished in line of duty’---until Peter snapped at him to shut it, nobody was dying today.

The receptionist got up as soon as they staggered in. Within minutes they were lifting Ricki onto a trolley. Peter didn’t realize Ricki had been holding onto his wrist until a nurse started to gingerly loosen his grip.

_God, he’s just a kid. A kid scared out of his mind in a room full of strangers._

Peter swallowed and started to answer the avalanche of questions as best as he could: name, age, yes he was given something no I’m not sure what. Every now and then Ricki’s eyes trailed back to him, holding his gaze for a second before sliding shut again. Peter made sure to stay in his line of sight. Exactly how high he ranked on the moral support scale, Peter had no idea. But in Ricki’s current state, he supposed any familiar face would do.

The doctors never asked him to leave. Peter didn’t let himself dwell on the implications.

It turned out to be a mix of street drugs and prescription, none of them habit forming, thank God. The combination had triggered an allergic reaction. The client got blacklisted. The anonymous tip-off to the police regarding substance possession was, of course, coincidental. Ricki bounced back to his annoying self almost overnight, no doubt thriving under all that attention.

Peter didn’t go to the welcome back party; might as well let Ricki tell his tale in peace.

A couple of months later, Peter came to the realization that he’d gained not one, not two, but three nice regulars: big tippers, sensible adults, not looking for anything he wouldn’t happily provide. Regulars like that were usually guarded jealously by Circus employees.

He went straight to the source of his suspicion.

‘You didn’t have to do that.’

Ricki returned the statement with a blank look. ‘A bit vague, wouldn’t you say?’

‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.’ Trust Ricki to get his hackles up in no time. ‘I don’t need your….tributes.’

‘I don’t like owing people.’

‘A simple thank you would suffice.’

‘Thought you’d prefer something a bit more original.’ Ricki glanced up from beneath fluttering lashes. The pouty curve of his bottom lip looked just a bit more deliberate, a bit more come-hither. ‘Unless…there is something else you’d rather have?’

If Peter did, for one brief moment, consider murder, it was surely justifiable. As justifiable as the urge to shove Ricki flat against the nearest wall, and bite that smirk off.

 

 

 

Irina doesn’t look much worse for wear. Although Ricki knows that there are plenty of places to hit without leaving bruises on show.

The hasty retreat upon seeing him is evidence enough.

Ricki calls out before she could slink away, ‘Irina.’

Her hand tightens around the door frame.

‘Irina, please, I just want to help. Can we talk at least?’

No response, but the door remains half open.

‘Okay.’ Ricki breathes out. ‘Okay. Either you talk to me, or I’m calling social services. This can’t go on.’

When she re-emerges, her whole body is held taut as a string, eyes unnervingly wide.

‘The café down the road, you know it?’ It is the longest sentence she’s spoken to date. The accent is hard to place, middle European maybe? Ricki holds her gaze, hoping to convey nothing but encouragement.

‘Sure. I mean, yes of course.’

‘Meet you there.’

 

 

 

Connie purrs as soon as Bill’s footsteps fade out of earshot.

‘Hmmm, something is different with you two. Now spill, tell me _everything_.’

‘There is nothing to tell.’ Jim starts. Connie’s eyes narrow at that, one finely arched eyebrow climbing to her hairline.

‘Well, that’s not suspicious at all, young Jedi. Please, we’re all liars here, each and every single one is better than you.’

‘We bumped into one another and had a coffee, that’s all.’ Jim carries on arranging the pieces of paper into squares. Honestly, he has no idea why he’s feeling caught out.

‘If there is coffee, you know it’s a date, right?’

‘No!’ Jim fights the urge to cower under her triumphant grin. ‘Not coffee coffee. It was… we were just passing the time.’

‘And I distinctly remember telling you he’s totally into you.’

‘He’s Bill, he’s into everybody.’ Jim winces at his tone, bugger.

‘Oh, sweetie.’ Connie’s voice softens. ‘Exactly, he’s Bill Haydon. All you can do is hanging on for the ride.’ The mischievous twinkle in her eyes comes back in full force. ‘Besides, you’re not one of us. You don’t have to stick to the first rule of whoredom.’

‘What might that be?’

‘Never fall for a client.’

Jim gives Connie a pointed look.

‘I know.’ Connie gestures with one manicured hand. ‘I’ve broken way worse ones than that.’


	9. Chapter 9

The one lasting memory Ricki has of his mother is the thick fall of her blond curls, brushing against his forehead as she tucked the duvet in.

Up close her smile was a vibrant curve, shifting from passion pink to Manhattan magenta depending on which day it was.

_Go to sleep, baby, sleep._

The dentist did a great job fixing the chip at the front.

She told people that she was hopelessly clumsy, falling over and hitting her head on the edge of the bathtub. And nobody was the wiser.

At night she was Roxanna the pub owner, or Hester the melodramatic wife, dying for love over and over again. Ricki lingered at the back of the empty theatre and watched, understanding half of the words.

Her co-star screamed at her and she fell to her knees, hands grasping his shirt. A plate shattered against the prop wall.

She never failed to cry on cue.

Years later, Ricki realizes that it’s probably kinder, the car crash. The men in her life would have done the deed sooner or later, slowly, painfully, stomping out one spark at a time.

 

 

 

Adrian finds him slouched over on the doorstep, eyes shut, either from lack of sleep or the cigarette he’s puffing away on. Peter has the kind of face that never betrays fatigue. He never looks truly knackered the way normal people do. Tiredness translates to a fragility in Peter: a softening of his features, the way he holds himself.

For a moment, Adrian feels intensely irritated, and grips his suitcase tighter.

‘Adrian, I---‘

Adrian holds up a hand. ‘I never get any sleep on planes, and I can smell myself. So---’ he slots the key into the lock, ‘---make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.’

The living room looks exactly the same, albeit dustier: journals with colour-coded highlights sprawled over the pages; the cactus in the corner, determinedly surviving. Yet Peter feels it’s presumptuous to sit down; it’s not his home, not any more(not yet). So he stands stiffly by the doorway, hands shoved into his coat pockets, trying not to fidget.

Adrian re-appears five minutes later, wiping moisture from his brow. He blinks when he spots Peter, surprised, before his expression flattens.

There are so many thoughts, words, war drums in Peter’s mind, racing and racing. He heaves a frustrated sigh. Adrian watches from a few feet away, eyes shadowed.

‘Well?’

_What will be the bigger regret, what will it be?_

Drawing a shuddering breath, Peter opens his mouth---

And tells him.

 

 

 

Connie breezes into the office with stilettos dangling in one hand, her fur shawl slipping down to her elbows.

‘Darling,’ she sing-songs. ‘I have quite outdone myself this time.’

George peers at her flushed face over the top of his glasses. He’s familiar with this particular Con, of course, moving like the world is soft and fuzzy around the edges.

‘Remember the Ginger Pig?’

She has names for all her regulars: Ginger Pig, Ferret, Dotty Owl. George nods.

‘He was there tonight, at the party, with his _wife_. Could you believe it?’ Connie sounds practically giddy. ‘A wisp of a thing. But oh, what eyes, what eyes!’

Her head lolls back, long neck bared coquettishly. ‘A bolt straight through the heart, I swear.’

George feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Connie calls _him_ her oldest, dearest lover. It’s one of the reasons she’s so good at this life; a brilliant mind plagued with idle fancy.

‘You don’t believe a word I just said, do you?’ Connie air-slaps him.

George holds up both hands in surrender. ‘I’m simply admiring your timing.’

She taps out a cigarette and beckons George closer for a light. Her shoulders sag with the first drag, lashes fluttering.

‘Have you ever been in love, George?’

Ah, there it is, the unexpected claw to the underbelly. He sets the tea down carefully.

‘Maybe, I’m not sure, it’s been so long.’

‘Don’t mince your words, you shrew. I’ve seen that lighter.’

 _To George, with all my love_ , says the etching.

‘It’s a good Ronson. They last.’ George places it on the desk, face down.

She shuffles closer. The hand she rests on his shoulder twitches like a bird longing for flight.

‘Love makes a fool of us all, dearie.’ Now it’s the East End tart speaking. ‘Ain’t no shame in that.’

 

 

 

It’s not easy to smuggle a person out, but---

‘Let’s just say I had a life before this, shall we?’ Ricki grins and slams the door shut after Irina climbs in. Her mouth thins into a pale line.

The car streaks out of the parking lot. Ricki doesn’t take his foot off the accelerator until they are near the docks, tasting salt in every bite of wind.

The one lone lamp by the side of the road flickers as he counts out all the notes in his wallet. He drops them in Irina’s lap when she stares back, unmoving. The dusty passport he unearths from the glove box only makes her gawp harder.

‘Take it, no one can tell if they don’t look too closely.’

The girl in the grainy picture has the same pale eyes, peeking out from beneath shaggy blond fringe, and goes by the name Rosemary.

Irina tries to shape her mouth around the unfamiliar syllables. It’s a passable attempt.

‘Yeah, Rose. Always knew it would come in handy.’ Ricki scratches the back of his neck. ‘A damn good copy too, mind you, got us through a few border controls.’

Flocks of wings flap past overhead, tearing at the sky with their shrill cries.

‘Why?’

Ricki blinks. ‘Why what?’

‘Why do you help?’ Irina bites out, suddenly vicious. ‘What do you want?’

‘Because I _can_.’ Ricki grips the steering wheel. He’s itching for a cigarette. ‘Because one day it will be too late.’

He doesn’t say one day there might be a chalk line on your pristine floor, tries not to imagine it either. Irina gnaws on her knuckle, letting out small wet noises as she fidgets.

Ricki opens the door and swings his legs down. ‘Take it or leave it. I’m done preaching.’

Gravels crunch underneath his boots. He gets about twenty paces out when he hears his name, cut short by a gust of wind.

Her long hair fans out behind her, twisting and flapping. The whole scene seems like a reenactment of all the other goodbyes he’s had over the years----by the side of the road, in a trashed room, on a hilltop in Hong Kong---it almost makes Ricki smile.

He sure has had a lot of practice walking away from things.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Christmas parties are horrid affairs, Peter decides three shots in. Every year the venue gets fancier, the drinks get lousier, and as much as he hates to admit, the crowd gets younger.

George has already performed the customary dance with Connie, which means shuffling his feet while she twirls around him, giggling like a schoolgirl. Jim is sitting in the corner, nursing his mulled wine with Jerry. Bill is here, too. Normally clients are excluded from the gathering. Ann must have pulled some strings to get him as her plus one. They stay hunched over by the balcony. Her hand comes to rest on Bill’s elbow from time to time.

Next to the bar, Ricki is downing Jager bombs with a bunch of whooping ladies, slamming the glass down after he tosses one back.

Peter just wants to get away from it all, the suffocating festiveness, and burrow down into his misery.

A glass appears out of nowhere. Peter blinks, jerking his gaze up until Ricki’s flushed face swims into view. Peter hopes his frown radiates enough leave-me-alone.

Tarr, surprise surprise, flops down onto the chair opposite with a tipsy, sprawling grace.

‘Come on, drink up. It ain’t proper---’ he shakes his head gravely, ‘---getting plastered by your lonesome.’

Peter wants to argue for the sake of it. Doesn’t like giving Tarr anything without a fight. But it’s far too late to be still sober, and far too early for conversations. He accepts the drink, grimaces as it burns all the way down.

‘Christ, what was that?’

Ricki is slapping his back and laughing. The kind of laugh he only does around them: unselfconscious, deep belly guffaws.

‘Dunno, house special.’ Ricki lifts an eyebrow. ‘Want another?’

He nods, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

 

 

Sipping that awful punch on autopilot, Peter waits for Ricki to ask---where is lover boy? For some reason it’s never Adrian. Tarr always seems to come up with some obnoxious nickname. The chatter is surely a ploy to tire the opponent out, as well as an excuse to ply him with alcohol.

Peter doesn’t bother to steel himself for the mock sympathy. The warmth in his belly isn’t unpleasant. His head is blissfully wooly at last, which could be why he looks down in surprise, belatedly registering the hand on his arm.

‘Sorry?’

‘Wanna come with?’ Ricki lifts his chin towards the group of people waving by the door. ‘The newbies are heading to Camden. Salsa isn’t your thing, I know, but it’s Christmas.’

As if that explains anything.

He tries to come up with a reason not to. But he’s tired. For now the sluggishness in his limbs feels good, instead of numb.

‘Not dancing,’ He mumbles as he stands. Ricki grabs his coat for him, herding the pack towards the taxi rank.

‘Oh yes you are,’ Ricki stage whispers. ‘It will be blackmail gold.’

 

 

Even _fuck the glass pass me the bottle_ Peter knows the whole thing falls under never-again category: too loud, too crowded. He’s given up trying to remove hands from various body parts. If he pulls a Cinderella tonight, it will be because his shoes get stuck to the grimy floor.

The girl dancing with him is lovely though, much better than the last--too many piercings for Peter’s liking. This one is all soft curves in the right places, smells good, too. She has one arm thrown over Peter’s shoulder, hips sashaying in counterpoint to his. The couple of times their eyes meet, her grin is more playful than flirty.

He hates to admit that Tarr’s right. This is a big improvement on going home alone, drunk, coming face to face with Adrian propped up in bed, glasses askew---

Peter has the presence of mind to mouth a sorry as he pulls away. She shrugs, already melting into someone else’s space. The sea of bodies ebb and flow, threatening to sweep him off his feet. The spinning in his head doesn’t help either.

It takes him a few tries to spot Tarr, who’s leaning towards a barman with blue spiky hair. They’re both grinning wide.

Sober Guillam will be horrified by the way he stumbles over, clutching at Tarr partly to prop himself up, partly to ensure Tarr’s full attention.

‘Bored with that one already? Man, aren’t you picky.’ Tarr shakes his head. They’re standing so close his hair brushes against Peter’s cheek when he does that. Peter fights the urge to burp. The way Tarr has to crane his neck back to meet his eye is distracting.

‘Want another drink?’

‘No.’ Peter sways, blinking the bright spots of colours away. ‘No.’

He sounds petulant even to his own ears. When Tarr smiles back, his wonky teeth are on full display.

‘Okay. Off you go then, the night’s young.’

The barman pipes up, almost cooing, ‘You guys are well cute.’

Peter opens his mouth to…he doesn’t know what. Tarr beats him to it. ‘Pfft, he should be so lucky.’

That is it. Peter has had enough of his shit. He gives a hard tug, and catches a spluttering Tarr around the waist.

Tarr’s pretty mouth goes slack and his eyebrows skyrocket, no doubt ready to protest. With a defiance all drunks seem to possess, Peter rocks forward into the space between those thighs, adds a little twist and grind as the beats quicken to a crescendo.

The grip Tarr has on his arm tightens. Multi-coloured strobe lights chase each other across his upturned face. Peter winds a hand into that hair, willing him to _come on_ , get with the program already.

Tarr unfreezes with a new glint in his eyes; always one to roll with the punches.

He doesn’t dance like he’s trying to prove a point, as Peter assumed, he dances as if they’ve got all the time in the world; barely swaying, letting the music roll through and out.

The skin behind Tarr’s ear smells faintly of smoke and honey. Peter bumps his nose there, pleased with the answering shiver and does it again, exhaling over the sweat-damp flesh. He expects Tarr to pull away. Instead he smooths a palm up Peter’s back, stroking back and forth, guiding their motion into something mellower, less primal.

Which isn’t what Peter wants, not at all.

He pries Tarr’s arms off and drags him towards the bathroom, or the fire exit, whichever is the closest.

 

 

 

The hallway light is always on these days. Don’t want you to trip on your way in, Adrian says, trying for nonchalance and lands somewhere near smothered resignation.

Peter kisses Adrian’s furrowed forehead as he climbs into bed, and eases the ipad out of Adrian’s hands.

Love you, he whispers, before turning the light off.

He doesn’t tell Adrian that when he’s awake, not any more. If you love me then how could you?

It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. I can’t start from the bottom of the pile again. I’m sorry.

Everything looks perfectly fine in the mornings. They’re just like any other couples with conflicting schedules. Adrian neurotically fixes his tie and meets Peter’s bleary eyes in the mirror, smiles.

A little stiffly, but a smile nonetheless.

It’s the time between Adrian coming back from work and Peter getting ready to leave that’s the minefield. Adrian keeps his mouth shut and his gaze averted as Peter picks out a shirt that compliments his eyes.

The silence is bone dry.

‘How was work?’ Peter tries, God does he try, shrinking down into the shield of his dinner jacket.

‘Fine.’

Adrian always says fine in that particular tone during those moments. He understands, as he’s said so many times since Peter laid the cards on the table. I understand, it’s work, it doesn’t mean anything.

Sometimes, Peter thinks _I understand_ must be the bleakest phrase in the English language.

 

 

 

The divider thankfully holds as they crash into it. Tarr lurches forward with a curse. Peter has one moment of clarity, one moment of bitter realization that this isn’t what he needs---instant gratification in a dodgy club.

It is, it is, but he shouldn’t.

Tarr leans back, stares at him dead in the eye. The quirk of his mouth says _it’s your call_.

And damn right it is. He reaches for Tarr’s fly, yanking him closer by the belt, who puts one arm out to brace the fall. Peter’s hand eye coordination is shot to hell. Tarr takes over with a huff, pinning him between cheap plastic and solid muscle.

There is a faded brown stain on the ceiling. Peter trains his gaze there while Tarr shoves clothes out of the way, enough to pull Peter out through the slit in his boxers. A teasing caress with the back of his knuckles before Tarr grips him for real, quick, dirty pulls just this side of too tight.

The water stain wavers as Tarr’s pointy little nose drags up his throat in a parody of a kiss. Peter fumbles beneath Tarr’s vest, flattens a palm against the small of his back and pushes down. The first long press of Tarr’s bulge against his thigh is instinctive, no finesse, doesn’t stop them from groaning out aloud. Tarr slaps a hand to the wall next to Peter’s head and angles himself away, muttering underneath his breath. Peter briefly mourns the loss of contact, then a hand is cupping his balls, rolling, and his cock slaps against his own stomach with the sort of juvenile eagerness he’s supposedly grown out of.

People think the best thing about Tarr is his mouth, perhaps it is. But it’s always those fidgety hands that make Peter bristle and glare and so goddamn on edge already---

Every fibre in Peter’s body snaps taut. The muscles in his stomach start twitching, helpless. Tarr deftly catches most of it with a tissue, chucking it in the toilet and turns to go.

Peter clears his throat, inhales, and does it again.

‘What about you?’ He winces at the question. There is no delicate way of putting this.

Tarr peers back with those dark eyes. ‘ ‘-s okay.’

Peter slumps against the cubicle, Jell-O legged. The tension he’s been carrying all night swirls down the drain with the soiled tissue. He waits until he has functional knees and shuffles out. Tarr is drying his hands by the bin, looking impossibly put together considering what’s just happened. The only telltale sign is the blotchy pinkness of his cheeks.

When in doubt, arm yourself with words.

‘Promise I won’t throw up half way through.’

Tarr grins, the same tilt to his mouth Peter has seen countless times before, shiny and impenetrable. Bizarrely, that makes him all the more peeved.

‘You always did think the worst of me.’ With that, Tarr strides out.


	11. Chapter 11

‘Darling, will you relax?’ Connie grabs the suitcase in one hand, wide brimmed hat perched precariously over her left ear. ‘We’re not marching to the gallows.’

Hilary’s eyes dart to the left, then right, before giving Connie’s hand a squeeze, which Connie returns by kissing her on the cheek. A quick peck, perfectly acceptable, yet the corners of Hils’ mouth draw tight.

She does have a way of being neurotic, especially when she thinks someone might be watching. Connie tramps down the spark of irritation and starts the engine.

Hilary doesn’t look over until they hit the county border, even then her glances are warier than Connie would like. She does slouch a little, though, her eyes drifting shut. A few strands of hair escape from the bun at her nape, whipping about in the breeze.

Connie fights the urge to tangle her fingers in those baby curls and mess them up even more. She’s not desperate enough to drive them off the road.

As if sensing her thoughts, Hils heaves a sigh. ‘Constance.’ Knowing full well how that name makes Connie cringe. Only her father calls her Constance, peering up at her over his wire-rimmed glasses.

She drops a hand in Hils’ lap, just because she can.

To her surprise, Hils turns her palm up, and gingerly links their fingers together. Connie gasps, mock swooning; as far as PDA goes, this ranks right up there with the fall of the Berlin Wall.

‘I am glad we could go, you know I am.’

‘You sure have a funny way of showing it.’

‘I was---’ Hils bites down on her lower lip, ‘---didn’t sleep very well last night.’

‘It’s only a girls’ weekend away, quit fretting.’

Hils pointedly lifts an eyebrow at their joined hands. Such a prude.

‘Well, with added orgasms. But nobody needs to know that.’

‘Connie!’

Connie grins. God knows how she’s ended up with this one. A little convent girl growing up to be the little perfect wife, who’s only ventured as far as reading the dirty parts in romance novels.

‘Where are we going?’

‘For the thousandth time, it’s a surprise.’

The rest of the drive passes in companionable silence. The tracks get narrower as they turn off the motorway. Spindly treetops crowd in overhead. Hils doesn’t look bothered by the lack of signs as Connie rounds a bend, and another, and a third, dipping down so suddenly the car lurches, before they reach a small clearing.

A simple square of a hut stands to one side, clapboard walls darkened with mildew. Its steeply angled roof juts out at the front, shielding the narrow porch.

‘Welcome.’ Connie whips the hat off with a flourish. ‘To my humble lodging.’

‘How on earth did you find this place?’ Hils climbs out, eyeing the rusty water pump with a mixture of curiosity and distrust.

‘I didn’t. Used to be a hunting lodge. Everyone else in the family has forgotten about it.’

Flush lifts his head from the back seat. His tail thumps once against the upholstery.

‘No TV, no phone, no internet. There is electricity though I think it’s one appliance at a time.’

Hils does a 360 degree turn, shading her eyes from the light. For one brief moment Connie’s heart sinks. Maybe she’s made a mistake, not everyone falls in love with her dacha like she did.

Then Hils is groping for her hand again, cheeks flushed pink. Her smile, Jesus, it makes Connie think of a million stupid metaphors.

 

 

 

Peter is avoiding him.

In that _sharing the same space but impossible to make eye contact_ way, which is hilarious.

Ricki lets him stew over whatever it is for a week, then corners him as he’s getting a fag out at the back. Casually plants himself between Peter and the exit.

He can tell Peter knows he’s there by the minute tensing in his right shoulder, like a boxer in the ring. Ignoring each other is an art neither of them has mastered.

Peter stands stock-still for a couple more beats, and turns around.

‘Perhaps I should have---’

‘About time you untwisted your panties---’

Peter gestures for Ricki to continue first, a sure sign that he’s pretty contrite about the whole thing.

‘Look, it’s not that complicated. You were in a funk, I happened to lend a helping hand…’ Ricki grins, pun fully not intended but too good to pass. ‘The end. Clock strikes twelve, poof! Home sweet home, Dorothy.’

Peter grinds out the forgotten cigarette. ‘That’s a terrible analogy.’

‘Whatever.’ Ricki waves away the jest. ‘Let’s stick to what we’re good at, shall we?’

‘And what, pray tell, may that be?’

‘Mutual distaste.’

Peter blinks, lips parting as if he’s on the verge of a comeback. Ricki doesn’t bother to hang around for it.

 

 

 

‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this.’

Jim jumps about three feet high. Behind him, Bill’s grin emerges like the Cheshire cat’s; two rows of white teeth pulling dramatically free from the shadows. Jim nods. ‘Hullo, wasn’t expecting to bump into you here.’

‘They do an excellent beef Pho, I thoroughly recommend it.’

Jim mouths ‘the usual’ to the girl behind the counter. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Asia is the one place I haven’t been.’

‘Well travelled, huh?’

‘Not voluntarily, no.’

‘Were you kidnapped by clowns?’

‘Hog-tied to the back of an elephant.’ Jim keeps the straight face for two counts. ‘Working parents. Didn’t get to stay in one place until college.’

Bill sweeps up their orders before Jim can protest. ‘Come on, my car is just around the corner.’

It’s an enormous relief to discover that he won’t be dripping fish sauce over a Rolls. Bill snorts. ‘Those black bedpans? Heaven forbid.’

Jim wasn’t lying about having moved around a lot. What he did leave out was that it was his mother who drifted. His pa, au contraire, was perfectly content to fiddle with numbers all day long. How on earth they managed to stray into each other’s orbit was anybody’s guess. His teenage years were divided into halves: on one side, rain-slicked Tunbridge Wells fenced in by neat hedges; on the other, a whirlwind of tri-coloured Bruges, cobblestoned Strasbourg, snowcapped _Praha_. Curt emails went from one parent to the other, claiming him for Christmas or half a school year.

‘I didn’t mind.’ Jim shrugs. ‘It wasn’t like, how did one of my teachers put it, _rather parentless_.’

Then again, he supposes Bill knows better than most, having gone to a boarding school. They both received their share of parental love in periodic, concentrated doses, and found the arrangement freeing.

For every adolescent mishap on Jim’s part, Bill offers an embarrassing tale of his own: letting his sisters dress him for May Ball; falling into the Mercury during his first Eights Week; a recent trip to Kyoto, which almost ended in arrest---a combination of sake, a Japanese phrase app, and a roomful of traumatized locals.

It’s a miracle that neither of them inhales spicy noodles up their noses.

At the end of the night he declines Bill’s repeated offer to drive him home, and gets the tube instead. Jim is aware that he’s walking a line only he could see, and everybody else deems redundant.

Even if the line has to be redrawn from time to time, he needs it there.

 

 

 

Adrian’s book shelves used to be filled with biographies and documentaries. Ever since Peter’s arrival, he’s been smuggling some of his own collection in: a few dog-eared classics, latest recommendation from friends, a couple of coffee table hardbacks for the nights he wants to switch his brain off. It’s become a ritual, the two of them curling up with their respective read, their legs tangling. Those wooly socks Adrian loves rub against Peter’s bare ankles.

The best part is when they share some amusing passages out aloud. Adrian’s soft drawl when he retells a joke, cracking up before he reaches the punch line. Peter always tries to inject some drama into his recital: adding sound effects, gasping at the reveal. Adrian slowly strokes his thumb over Peter’s instep as he listens.

They still sit in the same spot, and their feet are still slotted next to each other’s. But the distance between them is dizzying.

When they fight, they don’t fight ugly anymore. Boundaries have been set, not so much a bottom line but a neon sign. They’ve learnt to manoeuvre around it, taking bigger and bigger detours.

_As I lay in that dark hour, I was aghast to realize that something within me, long sickening, had quietly died._

Peter slams the pages shut with a wince. Adrian glances up over the spine of his own book, puzzled. Peter plasters on an apologetic smile. Adrian takes the expression for what it is, and returns to whatever it is he’s picked up lately.

 

 

 

For a moment George is sure he’s dreaming. The shrill, metallic sound a phantom coming back to haunt him. Back in those days when the ringing alone could turn his insides cold. Because without fail, a few hushed words later, his wife would be rushing out of the door without her earrings.

The ringing cuts off. George sinks back into the mattress with a grateful sigh.

Just as suddenly, it starts again, louder now that he’s halfway to wakefulness. Rather than drifting up the stairs, the noise seems to be piercing through the wall.

Most peculiar.

George doesn’t have a mobile. The only point of contact that’s remotely personal is the landline in his office, separate from the one in reception.

He scrambles up, and of course his slippers are nowhere to be found. So he patters down the hall barefoot, fruitlessly muttering ‘coming!’

The receiver almost slips out of his grip before he manages to croak out a hello.

There’s only statics from the other side. George tries again. ‘Hello?’

‘…George? George, Smiley?’

He doesn’t recognize the voice, and he has to strain to hear anything beyond the other person’s breathing.

‘Yes, who is this?’

‘It’s…’ the answering rasp thins out into a whisper, ‘…it’s Connie. Connie Sachs.’

As if he knows any other Connies. ‘Connie? You sound---’

‘No, no there’s been an---’ he finally recognizes the breathlessness as hysteria, ‘---an accident. I’m calling with her phone.’

He tightens his grip, fingers suddenly nerveless.

‘Where are you?’

‘I don’t know, I, the ambulance took us here.’ She sounds further away now. ‘Yeo something, Yeoveel?’


	12. Chapter 12

He’s guessed who she is the moment he claps eyes on her: a grave, Florentine profile, with hair just starting to turn grey in an elegant silver streak above her ear.

The lone figure glances up at his approach. A splash of brown liquid jumps out from the cup in her hands.

She thought I was the doctor, George realizes. When I’m as hungry for news as she is.

‘Hilary?’

Her face twitches, a brave attempt at a smile. George sits himself down in the plastic chair next to her.

‘How are you holding up?’

There are questions, questions that need answering. He pushes them aside for now. She looks like she’s been met with enough scrutiny already. Hilary stares straight ahead, fingers opening and closing around the styrofoam .

‘It’s so silly.’ When she speaks, her voice seems to be coming from someone else. ‘We ran out of milk. It wasn’t even some necessity. But she said there was a farm, said she’d be back before I’m up…’ She starts to weep without changing her facial expression.

In times of crisis, George tends to retreat back into his own head. Now he curses his inability to throw words from his heart, to cast whatever hope he feels wide enough to include Hilary.

They sit, elbow to elbow, and wait.

 

 

 

It’s easier than he thought, gathering his things from around a sleeping Adrian.

When he comes back from the bathroom, wash bag in hand, Adrian is sitting up. The covers pool around his middle, and there’s a pillow crease on his cheek.

It’s a sight that used to make Peter’s heart lurch, still does, but in a whole different way.

Peter doesn’t want to hover by the door. Nor does he want to stand too close, having Adrian within touching distance.

Adrian’s eyes rest on Peter’s knees, the suitcase by the dresser, then drift up to somewhere around his chest. Peter opens his mouth: one last apology, Adrian deserves that much at least.

Adrian beats him to it. ‘Don’t.’

Peter swallows.

‘We’ve both tried.’ Adrian hangs his head over bent knees. ‘Haven’t we?’

And sometimes even the best effort isn’t enough, Peter hears what he’s not saying.

‘Yes.’

Adrian nods. He doesn’t move from the curled-over position as Peter wheels the suitcase out.

 

 

 

Not much has changed since the last time Jim was in George’s office. Everything is in shades of grey, except the desk, which is a solid brown. The only new development is a square frame next to the bookshelves, a gift, Jim suspects.

George directs him to the sofa---prime seat in the house that overlooks the garden. The flowers are not in full bloom yet, splashes of color peeping out from among the mossy green. On the low table there is a steaming pot of tea, two sets of cups, and bizarrely, a plate of smoked salmon.

It has been a week from hell.

George disappeared to god-knows-where, with only a note stating his absence. Connie, who should have been back from her trip by now, couldn’t be reached by call or text. All the last minute cancellations had Jim running ragged, trying to deliver the right person to the right client on time.

Of course, the first thing George said to Jim when he reemerged, rumpled and sunken-eyed, was not to disturb him for the next few days.

Jim hopes to hell he’s getting a raise. Or at the very least, a holiday.

How’s the family? Everyone’s well, thank you. Your godson, how’s he finding the school? Oh Jumbo, he’s made some new friends. A bright kid, that one.

So on and so forth.

There is a stillness to George, to the way he takes his time to pour tea, or butter a piece of bread, like an actor waiting for a cue.

‘Jim.’ George pushes his glasses up. ‘I’m sorry to have left you to man the fort. I had to leave on short notice.’ He dips his chin. ‘It’s Connie. She was in an accident.’

Jim barely registers the sound of his teacup hitting the saucer. ‘My God, is she---’

‘She’s left intensive care when I got on the train.’

Intensive care, Jim’s mind reels. ‘Should I contact the family?’

‘It’s quite alright, Jim.’ George shakes his head and falls silent again.

Conversations with George can be tiring. He has a tendency to wait for the other person to fill in the blanks.

‘What happened?’

‘Hit-and-run, I was told.’ George seems to chew on the words. ‘Her car was t-boned.’

There it is again, the watchful stillness. Jim presses both hands to the material of his trousers. His tie feels strangling.

‘What did the doctors say?’

George is silent for so long Jim chances a glance to see if he’s fallen asleep.

‘The surgery was successful.’ Colour seems to come back to George’s cheeks all at once. ‘With physiotherapy, there’s hope that she’ll walk again.’

‘Jesus.’ The word tumbles out on an exhale. Jim says it again because he needs to hear it, ‘Jesus.’

It’s impossible to imagine the Circus without Connie, good old Connie, who’s always dishing out tales and endearments.

He looks up and notices for the first time that George’s face is lined with more than fatigue. The bags under his eyes take on a waxy appearance which wasn’t there before.

‘Is there---’ he clears his throat, ‘—is there anything I can do?’

‘Yes.’

The answer startles and delights him at the same time. Jim shifts to the edge of the sofa.

‘Has Connie mentioned the name Hilary to you?’

Mentioned? Once Connie starts it’s hard to get her to stop. A one-woman theatre of too much information.

‘You’re aware that Hilary is married?’

This conversation is veering off on some wild tangent. Jim blinks.

‘I believe the couple is going through divorce. A divorce her husband is trying to avoid, due to an unfavourable pre-nup.’

When Jim swallows, his throat clicks. A chill grips the back of his neck. ‘George, are you saying…’

He’s never been so transfixed by the sight of a man methodically polishing his glasses, first anti-clockwise, then clockwise, fingers pinching the fat end of his tie just so.

‘They stayed at Connie’s family lodge for the weekend. Hardly somewhere one would expect heavy traffic.’

‘Do you think the husband did it? Out of what? Spite?’

George puts those glasses back on, before he interlaces his fingers over his stomach. ‘I don’t think the husband is aware of the affair. But he knows Connie.’

‘How?’

‘He’s one of our clients.’

Jim scrubs a hand over his forehead. His palm comes away damp. ‘So he thinks Connie is spilling his secrets. Or his wife is buying them off her---’ he stops short, ‘---what is it that you wanted me to do, George?’

 

 

 

Ricki is surprised that it took the police this long to show up. He presses his ear to the door, and tries to piece together the snippets of conversation.

Apparently the husband didn’t even file a missing person’s report. It was Irina’s workplace that first raised the alarm.

‘Done it before.’

Ricki grits his teeth at the man’s slurred, too-loud voice.

‘Ran off to some aunt’s. She’ll show.’

The cops’ tone becomes distinctly unimpressed after that.

When his own doorbell goes off half an hour later, Ricki grips the door knob for a moment. The coolness of the metal centres him. He thinks of the postcard he got a few weeks ago, with a simple thank you scribbled onto the back.

Nobody has ever accused Ricki of not being able to lie.


	13. Chapter 13

Jim hasn’t bothered to put on a suit this nice for ages, since most of the time he’s sitting behind a desk. Or he’s a voice over the phone. He feels like a harlequin, dusted off and plopped into the middle of The Ivy.

One of Bill’s favourite restaurants, Jim remembers, and loses any remaining appetite.

He feels a sharp stab of misery when Bill spots him from across the room. On any other day, the look on his face could have made Jim---

There’s a reason that he didn’t major in English.

‘Jim.’ Bill says, and doesn’t elaborate. A small part of Jim is glad that he didn’t go for any of his usual, over-the-top compliments.

The food is excellent, or it would be if Jim can taste it. Instead, the growing dread sends his mind into meaningless loops. By the time cheese and coffee is served, he feels he’s been swallowing cardboard for the past hour.

Bill rests his hand on the table. Not reaching out to hold Jim’s, thankfully, but close enough the warmth buzzes against the skin on Jim’s wrist.

‘I’m terribly flattered.’ Bill leans back into his chair, shoulders flexing. For a split second Jim is reminded of George; they have the same calculated inattention. ‘You see, I was not expecting to wear you down so soon, a man of principle like you, Jim.’ Bill’s eyes curve into new moons, but Jim knows he’s been watched.

Have they lost all hopes of sincerity in one another’s company? Jim takes a sip of water. He tries to recall George’s words.

_‘What do you want me to do?’_

_‘Nothing you’re not comfortable with.’_

‘Let’s go for a walk.’ Jim stands.

Bill moves like he’s never needed to be anywhere in a hurry: back straight, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The soles of his suede shoes fall on the pavement soundlessly.

As they stroll along the river, Jim runs through every opening line in his head. Eventually he grasps for the most honest.

‘I have a favour to ask.’

Bill’s profile is illuminated by the wavering reflections on the Thames. He doesn’t look particularly surprised. Jim soldiers on. ‘Do you remember Connie?’

‘I’ve had the pleasure of her company, yes.’

‘She’s been in an accident.’

That gets Bill to turn towards him. The half-smile he’s been wearing since they left the restaurant droops. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is she alright?’

Jim tells him the gist: the perfect timing, the disappearance of the car and the driver, the lack of eye-witnesses, not to mention surveillance footage on a country lane. The motion of walking seems to lend a fluency to his speech. Bill listens with a thoughtful frown. He doesn’t interrupt.

When he stutters to a stop, Jim realizes he’s gripping the damp railing along the river bank in both hands. Bill fishes out a pack of cigarette and waves it in Jim’s direction, who hastily gives his permission.

‘Hilary Swinton, did you say?’ Bill takes a drag, squinting at the white dome of St Paul’s. ‘Isn’t she fighting a legal battle with her husband?’

‘That’s…’ Jim’s seen Ann doing this, even though he can never hope to be as irresistible. He curves a hand over the crook of Bill’s elbow, and tries not to shake. ‘That’s the favour I meant to ask. Take her case.’

Bill doesn’t pull away. Jim’s aware he’s probably sweating over some tailor’s hand stitching.

‘Alleline is a brilliant golfer, and a fool.’ Bill’s smile blurs through the screen of smoke. ‘He’s been fuming about the case for months now. I’d hate to lose the daily entertainment of his incompetence.’

Jim watches him taking a few steps away, presumably to dispose of the cigarette butt. His face burns with humiliation. What was he thinking? What was George thinking? It should be Ann here, charming her way through the request. He drops the hand still hanging in the air.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Jim stares at Bill’s back, still turned away from him.

Bill turns around to face him. He doesn’t step any closer, though. ‘Who’s asking, you, or Smiley?’

Jim’s shirt is sticking to his back and along his ribs. Bill’s expression gives nothing away.

‘Connie is my friend.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘To think the man who’s responsible for hurting her might---’ He can’t finish the sentence. George showed him the police report he’d discreetly taken a picture of. Hilary herself has admitted to George that she had felt uneasy, watched, weeks prior to the holiday. Money can buy a person’s time, body and affection. Why not their lives?

Bill waits a beat. ‘If I was a good man, I’d say yes.’ Jim’s heart sinks to somewhere around his liver. He’s already looking for way to salvage this evening, some clever words to patch up their professional relationship, oh hell---

‘But I’m not. So I’ll say yes on one condition.’

Jim feels his heart kick-start with a thump. He can’t quite bring himself to say ‘anything’. This is Bill Haydon, after all. Bill takes his silence as acceptance.

‘A second date.’

Jim can only hope he doesn’t look as flabbergasted as he feels.

Bill winks. ‘Come on, I can’t very well kiss you on our first date. It’s frowned upon.’

 

 

 

Connie arrives at her farewell party in style---carried on a settee by four oiled-up men, her rhinestone encrusted crutches in the arms of another. The whole room bursts into applause and catcalls, which Connie soaks up, blowing kisses from her lofty crown.

The celebration lasts for four days. On the second they travel to Osea Island, and get the pool all to themselves for 24 hours. Everyone turns up, except Ann. Peter wonders if it’s the old Connie-Ann animosity, or because Jim has Bill by his side. There’s no doubt that they’re together; both wearing white crepe de Chine like it’s a day at the cricket. That pocket square of Jim’s—emerald with a pattern of postage stamps---is blatantly from Bill’s own wardrobe. Connie’s in a swimsuit, an enormous silk scarf draped over her legs. She can get around on crutches but she still tires easily. So she prefers to sit in the shade, a martini in hand, and watches her gorgeous boys, as she puts it.

When George ambles over, she sits up and holds both arms out. George bends down and hugs her. He almost drops Connie when she pulls back, then kisses him square on the mouth. George squirms under Hilary’s cool gaze. Connie only laughs, wiping the sweat above her eyebrows with the back of her hand.

‘Hoof it, darling.’ Connie passes her empty glass to Hilary. ‘He can’t steal me away now.’

They sit face to face. Connie leans back like her neck can’t support the weight of her head. George manages to perch at the foot of the deck chair, his back twisted awkwardly. For once, her watery gaze rests directly on him, not the hazy mirage he always pictures she’s looking at.

‘I should let her go, shouldn’t I, George?’

‘Con---’

She ignores his interjection completely. 'Ginger Pig is out of the picture. Go find yourself a boy toy, Hils, or a girl toy if your tastes have changed that much. Connie’s no fun these days.’ Her bottom lip wobbles and she slaps her own thigh. ‘But I’ve never been philanthropic. I don’t know how.’

Her eyes drift away from him, and all of a sudden, the rain clouds disperse. George follows her line of sight, and sees Hilary picking her way back, bearing something electric blue in a Margarita glass.

‘No, don’t start now, Con.’ He covers her knee, the one that’s not healing around metal pins.

 

 

 

Ricki isn’t a confident swimmer. He almost drowned in a public pool when he was nine. But he likes how it requires all of his concentration to coordinate the breathing with the movement of his limbs.

He swims the length of the pool a few times. The water is warm from being in the sun all day, balmy against his skin.

The moon looks so much closer here, when there are no city lights to compete with it.

He hears soft footsteps and lifts his head.

Peter pads out of the lobby and onto the grass. He’s dressed in one of the hotel’s robes, tied sensibly around the waist.

In the last few months, Peter has finally lost that downtrodden look. Oh, he can front as good as the rest of them. Ricki grew up around theatre. He knows what a heartbreak looks like plastered over with rouge and talcum.

He thinks Peter will turn around as soon as he sees him. Peter doesn’t, instead he nods in acknowledgement.

Ricki does another lap then stops. He treads water until he’s close enough to rest both elbows on the mosaicked tiles around the pool. He doesn’t think he imagined Peter’s eyes following the line of his shoulders. Well, that’s never been an issue, has it? His body is religiously maintained for people’s viewing pleasure, among other things.

Peter’s mouth twitches wryly; he knows he’s been caught, too. He doesn’t look defensive, the way Ricki wants him to, and that throws Ricki.

‘Do you know what I thought, on our way in?’

Ricki continues to be thrown. ‘No…?’

‘I thought, this would be the perfect spot for murder.’

‘What, on the island?’ Ricki heaves himself out of the water. He’s not taking any chances, not with this interesting turn of conversation. ‘Do you know how many CCTV cameras are around?’

‘Not the island itself. The road we came in on. Did you not see those tide marks?’

Osea Island is connected to the mainland via a single narrow track, which disappears twice daily when the tide rises.

‘Well, you clearly haven’t thought this through.’ Ricki holds up one finger. ‘It’s the River Blackwater, not the sea. The tide’s not strong enough to drag a body out. You’ll end up with a soggy corpse twenty feet away from where you dumped it. Two---‘ He stops when he sees Peter’s face split into a grin. Now Ricki wants to duck back under the water. ‘What?’

Peter shakes his head, still chuckling. ‘Nothing. Just, we’re both giving some serious thought to a hypothetical murder.’

‘Hey, you started it.’

‘I know.’ The smile lingers even as Peter turns to go. ‘Goodnight.’

Ricki stays at the same spot for a long time. Did he stumble through a crack and end up in a new dimension without realizing?

 

 

 

_To George, with all my love._

George smooths a thumb over the curling letters. It’s a good Ronson and this one has lasted some ten, fifteen years. Perhaps having to set such statement in metal is already an admission of failure.

He’s gone through the ups and downs of amour. He’s glimpsed other people in the middle of theirs: raging, lingering, clandestine. It’s an old story. But who’s to say that we’re better off without this illusion?

George puts the lighter on the bedside table, face down, and burrows under the duvet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. My longest fic to date. There have been many hair-tearing moments, but I'm glad I stuck with it.  
> Many thanks to my betas: radialarch, and bridget  
> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


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